Mr. Martin’s office closed at one o’clock on Saturdays. He left a few minutes before that hour, having put John Lacey’s letter in his pocket and examined the mechanism of his automatic. Then he consumed a hasty lunch at a chophouse nearby, and walked down the street to Aldersgate Metropolitan station, where he took a ticket to Paddington. He emerged into Praed Street at about five minutes to two, and began to walk along that thoroughfare in the direction of Number 407.
Praed Street, at this time on a fine afternoon, wore its usual air of busy activity. The exodus from central London was still at its height, the crowds still passed along in bus or taxi towards the portals of Paddington station. On the other hand, the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, released from work, were beginning their weekend shopping. The pavement was crowded, and Mr. Martin, who had some distance to walk to his destination, looked about him curiously. Since he had put up his shutters for the last time, fifteen years ago, he had rarely revisited Praed Street, and even then he had only traversed it in a taxi, going to or from Paddington. The street had changed a little since he had been an inhabitant of it. Certainly there were fresh names over many of the shops, and, here and there, there had been alterations to the buildings he remembered. He glanced at a board on the opposite side of the street. Elmer Ludgrove. That was new since his day. The rather musty-looking shop was conspicuous among its neighbours by being closed. Praed Street, as a rule, does most of its business on Saturday afternoon.
Mr. Martin walked on a step or two, then hesitated for an instant. So Sam Copperdock, from whom he bought his cigarettes in those early days, was still here. Mr. Martin had long ago abandoned cigarettes for cigars, but he felt a momentary impulse to go in and renew the old acquaintance. Sam Copperdock had been a good customer of his, he remembered. Many a bottle of whiskey had he sold him. But on second thoughts he refrained. Perhaps it would be just as well, in the light of what might happen during the next half hour or so, that his visit to Praed Street remained unsuspected.
Mr. Martin walked on, and in a few minutes found himself outside Number 407. It was much as he remembered it, but that it was lying empty, and showed signs of being refitted for a new tenant. The windows were almost obscured with patches of whitewash, but peering through them he could see trestles, timber, shavings, all the litter which betrays the presence of the carpenter. So far, then, the letter was correct. Mr. Martin, after a furtive glance round about him, walked up to the door and tried it. It was locked.
He drew out his watch and consulted it. It was nearly five minutes past two, but he remembered that he had noticed that morning that it was a trifle fast. Lacey, whoever he was, would doubtless be along in a moment. Mr. Martin hoped he would be quick; he had no wish to be recognized outside the premises by any of his old acquaintances. A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps Lacey was already inside, waiting for him. There was an electric bellpush by the side of the door. Mr. Martin pressed it firmly, but could hear no answering ring above the roar of the traffic. Then all at once he became aware that a small girl was standing by his side, looking up at him with an appraising expression.
As he turned to look at her, she made up her mind and spoke. “Is your name Mr. Martin?” she asked.
Mr. Martin frowned down at her. “What’s that got to do with you?” he replied.
“ ’Cos if you are, Dad told me to give you the key,” she continued, quite unabashed. “And there’s a message from Mr. Lacey that you’re to go in and wait for him, as he’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Martin with a smile. “Yes, my dear, I am Mr. Martin. How did your father come to have the key?”
She jerked her head towards a sweet shop two or three doors away. “We lives there,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Briggs the builder, what’s working here, leaves it with us because he’s my uncle. His men come and get it in the morning. And Mr. Lacey, him what’s coming here, telephoned just now to say you was coming to see the drains and I was to give you the key.”
“Oh yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Martin, completely reassured. “Thank you, my dear, I’ll see that either Mr. Lacey or myself brings you back the key so that your uncle’s men may get in on Monday morning. That’s the shop, there, isn’t it?”
He waited until the child had disappeared into the shop, then opened the door of Number 407 with the key which she had given him, walked in and closed the door behind him. Here he paused for a moment, thinking rapidly. He felt that he was up against a brain as agile as his own, and that the coming interview would demand all his skill if he were to bring it to a favourable issue. This man Lacey had taken steps to advertise the fact that Mr. Martin had entered the premises, obviously as a precaution against foul play. His automatic would be of no use to him, he would have to rely upon his brains instead.
Then suddenly it flashed upon him
